Page 25 of Hounded

“Why would you…?” Jonathan grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to face him. His forehead creased in a scowl. “It’s unbecoming, you know. Indulging yourself inpetty jealousy.”

I looked aside, but didn’t break his hold on me.

Jonathan’s chest swelled, then emptied. He was as dashing as the day I met him with his auburn hair carefully combed and his swallowtail coat hugging the curves of his body. The sight was enough to distract me from what was happening outside and, when he cupped his hand around my waist, I leaned into his touch.

“You know something?” His stubbled cheek scrubbed against mine. He smiled. I heard more than saw it as he spoke. “Sometimes, when I’m with her, I close my eyes and pretend she’s you.”

Somehow, that was the cruelest thing he could have said.

Hours later, I held my peace as I stood beside him in front of a crowd of well-wishers. I bit my tongue while the priest shared scripture and blessings for the happy couple.

When it came time at last to recite the vows, I thought I might choke on my silence.

Jonathan clasped hands with his new wife, enraptured in the moment. And, while he repeated words like “honor” and “cherish” and “forever,” I closed my eyes and pretended she was me.

I didn’t tell Abigail any of that. I didn’t answer at all because Moira chose that moment to descend from the stands and whistle shrilly.

“Lorenzo!” she shouted. “Come!”

She could lure me with more than a call. More than my name. More than a ring on my cellphone. She could lead me to any corner of Hell or drag me down from Earth with a pull on my very soul. It had been a long time since she’d needed to exert that level of authority. I was trained in obedience, after all. So, with a parting nod to Abigail, I answered Moira’s summons.

Whitney joined us, relishing any opportunity to hang near the demoness’s side. Moira stroked his hair and face while she addressed me without the scarcest hint of fondness.

“I think I’ll leave the instruction to Whitney from here on out. From what I just observed, you may be better suited to hunting than sparring.”

I didn’t miss the insult or Whitney’s subtly smug look, but it wouldn’t do to protest. Saying I’d taken pity on Abigail would earn me none.

Moira surveyed the hounds battling around us. Yelps of pain mingled with animalistic roars as weaker opponents were weeded out.

“That can be fixed, though,” the demoness said in a cheerier voice. “We can put you through your paces along with the rest of them. Might be a nice refresher.”

Or an excuse to exact the punishment she believed I deserved.

My gaze dropped to the dirt below me and found it speckled with beads of blood. I nodded.

“For now, though, I have an assignment for you.” Moira spread her hands to produce a rolled sheet of parchment from which she read. “Joss Foster. He’ll be inNew York soon.” Her forehead scrunched. “Are you familiar with the area?”

“Yes, Miss,” I replied.

“Wonderful.” She released the scroll. It curled closed, then disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke as she continued, “He’s an artistic fellow. Creative type. Nothing compared to that battle-ready Abernathy.” She laughed. “You must have a few new scars from that one.”

With my arms and upper chest mostly bare, I had plenty of old wounds already on display. Supernatural healing minimized damage but didn’t erase it entirely. In former lives, Indy had offered his tears to remove my scars, but I didn’t want to use his powers. He’d been used before I found him—exploited—and I refused to contribute to that.

“Well?” Moira looked at me. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Always in such a hurry to leave.”

There was a warning in her words and sarcasm biting enough I felt its teeth. Damn if Whitney wasn’t right.

“You’re dismissed,” she said. It took five seconds, maybe more, until I worked up the courage to turn my back on her.

While cutting a path between sparring hellhounds on my exit from the arena, I regained the presence of mind to consider my new assignment.

Joss Foster.

Why did that name sound familiar?

15

Loren